


Smooch

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/F, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uhura springs tamely lewd shenanigans on Chapel in the mess hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smooch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The datapad before her is only marginally more interesting than her salad, but Christine continues reading anyway. The tale involved isn’t nearly romantic enough for her tastes, but that’s what they get for letting Chekov choose the book club’s weekly selection. At least Sulu’s picking next week, and he and Christine have remarkably similar interests when it comes to fiction. She deliberately stops every few paragraphs to stir her salad, scooping croutons onto the edge of her fork and swirling the leaves about the dressing at the bottom. But then she runs out of lettuce to skewer and instead finds herself frowning down at an empty bowl, wondering if she wants another round. 

A long, elegant finger lands atop her knuckles. Christine nearly jumps, looking up at Nyota’s gorgeous face, smiling coyly across the table. It makes Christine wonder how long she’s been there; Nyota’s normally a difficult woman to miss. She is, after all, the most beautiful creature on the Enterprise, more intriguing than perhaps anyone but certain aliens, and Christine’s digital novel instantly falls by the wayside. Her attention falls to Nyota’s index finger, now tracing little circles around the bumps of Christine’s knuckles, soft enough to make her shiver. 

“I suppose I can see the appeal,” Nyota sighs wistfully, as her pointed nail grazes down Christine’s middle finger. Nyota’s dark skin contrasts Christine’s lighter pigment almost as much as the shock of their red and blue uniforms, Nyota’s artfully painted nails juxtaposing Christine’s clean-cut surgeon’s hands. 

As Nyota rounds the tip and traces back down the side, pressing into the seam between fingers and lazing over to the jut of Christine’s thumb, Christine asks, “Of what?” Her voice is half curious, half hushed. There’s something luxurious and mesmerizing in the touches, like an intimate massage. But then, everything Nyota does is more skillful than it needs to be.

“Vulcan kissing,” Nyota answers. Christine’s eyes flicker up, catching the wide grin that creases Nyota’s lips. The mirth reaches her eyes until her teeth are showing. It spreads, and Christine finds herself trying to repress a giggle. 

Understanding, she lifts her own fingers off the table in the rarely seen gesture. She holds her index and middle fingers together, watching Nyota do the same, and they press just the tips against one another. At first, it’s only light and fleeting, but then Nyota lingers, and Christine becomes firmer. She can’t stop herself from imagining the press of lips. This isn’t quite as satisfying, but it is warm and gentle, and despite all Nyota’s work with her hands, her skin is delightfully soft, her fingers small and delicate, matching Christine’s own.

Christine turns her fingers first. Something compels her to run down the slope of Nyota’s hand, and Nyota snaps to life, mirroring the movement. They rub against one another in a slow glide that ebbs from amusing into sensual. Even without touch-telepathy, Christine can _feel_ the attraction in the act, properly applied to a beautiful woman like Lieutenant Nyota Uhura. For a moment, Christine watches gradual rocking off their fingers, gracefully intertwining, and then she inevitably lifts her gaze back to Nyota’s face. She finds Nyota’s dark eyes already trained on her, the smile still there but melted, more powerful than laughing. 

_This_ Christine could read about. A seductress like her favourite singer, caressing the stubborn hands of a poor, artless soul. Vulcan love tales have always intrigued Christine, but of course, there are no Vulcans quite like _Nyota_ , and as their fingers wrap tight around one another, locking together, she can’t help but wonder what other alien delicacies the two of them could try, what other connections they could learn—

The spell’s broken by the musk of _man_ : Dr. McCoy slipping into the seat beside her. Nyota doesn’t let go, so Christine doesn’t either, but she does look at her colleague expectantly. He has a broad grin on his normally gruff features and a twinkle in his eye. Nodding towards the nearest table, he says, “I think you two ladies better move it to your quarters before you give the hobgoblin a heart attack.”

Indeed, Mr. Spock is at the next table over, deliberately looking at the wall, his cheeks ever so faintly tinted green. Across from him, the captain is covering his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh. 

Christine tears herself away and means to drop her hand to say something inane, maybe tell Nyota a joke or ask about her day, but instead what comes out of Christine’s mouth is: “Your quarters or mine?”

Nyota laughs, already climbing out of her seat. Their arms have to stretch because their hands haven’t let go. Christine hurries to follow as Nyota comes around her end of the table. Christine just barely remembers to grab the datapad before she leaves, clutching it in one hand while the other pecks Nyota’s, all the way back to her quarters.


End file.
